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FIGHTING FRANCE
BY
STEPHANE LAUZANNE
LIEUTENANT IN THE FRENCH ARMY, CHEVALIER OF THE LEGION OF HONOR
EDITOR IN CHIEF OF THE "MATIN,"
MEMBER OF THE FRENCH MISSION TO THE UNITED STATES
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
JAMES M. BECK, LL.D.
LATE ASSISTANT ATTORNEY-GENERAL OF THE UNITED STATES
TRANSLATED BY
JOHN L. B. WILLIAMS, A.M.
SOMETIME FELLOW OF PRINCETON UNIVERSITY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK
LONDON
1918
Copyright, 1918, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Printed in the United States of America
TO
MY CHIEFS
MY COMRADES
MY MEN
WHO ARE FIGHTING FOR THE GREAT CAUSE
OF LIBERTY AND CIVILIZATION
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
FOREWORD
To be Editor-in-Chief of one of the greatest newspapers in the world
at twenty-seven years of age is a distinction, which has been enjoyed
by few other men, if any, in the whole history of journalism. There
may have been exceptional instances, where young men by virtue of
proprietary and inherited rights, have nominally, or even actually,
succeeded to the editorial control of a great metropolitan newspaper.
But in the case of M. Stéphane Lauzanne, his assumption of duty in
1901 as Editor-in-Chief of the Paris _Matin_ was wholly the result of
exceptional achievement in journalism. Merit and ability, and not
merely friendly influences, gave him this position of unique power,
for the _Matin_ has a circulation in France of nearly two million
copies a day, and its Editor-in-Chief thereby exerts a power which it
would be difficult to over-estimate.
M. Lauzanne was born in 1874 and is a graduate of the Faculty of Law
of Paris. Believing that journalism opened to him a wider avenue of
usefulness than the legal profession, he preferred--as the event
showed most wisely--to follow a journalistic career. In this choice he
may have been guided by the fact that he was the nephew of the most
famous foreign correspondent in the history of journalism. I refer to
M. de Blowitz, who was for many years the Paris correspondent of the
London _Times_, and as such a very notable representative of the
Fourth Estate. No one ever more fully illustrated the truth of the
words which Thackeray, in Pendennis, puts into the mouth of his George
Warrington, when he and Arthur Pendennis stand in Fleet Street and
hear the rumble of the engines in the press-room. He likened the
foreign correspondents of these newspapers to the ambassadors of a
great State; and no one more fully justifies the analogy than M. de
Blowitz, for it is profitable to recall that when in 1875 the military
party of Germany secretly planned to strike down France, when the
stricken gladiator was slowly but courageously struggling to its
feet, it was de Blowitz, who in an article in the London _Times_ let
the light of day into the brutal and iniquitous scheme, and by mere
publicity defeated for the time being this conspiracy against the
honor of France and the peace of the world. Unfortunately the _coup_
of the Prussian military clique was only postponed. Our generation was
destined to sustain the unprecedented horrors of a base attempt to
destroy France, that very glorious asset of all civilization.
De Blowitz took great interest in his brilliant nephew and at his
suggestion Lauzanne became the London correspondent of the _Matin_ in
1898, when he was only twenty-four years of age. This brought him into
direct communication with the London _Times_ which then as now
exchanged cable news with the _Matin_, and it was the duty of the
young journalist to take the cable news of the "Thunderer" and
transmit such portions as would particularly interest France to the
_Matin_, with such special comment as suggested itself. How well he
did this work, requiring as it did the most accurate judgment and the
nicest discrimination, was shown when he was made Editor-in-Chief of
the _Matin_ in 1901.
His tenure of office was destined to be short for, when the world war
broke out, M. Lauzanne, as a First Lieutenant of the French Army,
joined the colors in the first days of mobilization and surrendered
the pen for the sword. His career as editor had been long enough,
however, for him to impress upon the minds of the French public the
imminency of the Prussian Peril. As to this he had no illusions and
his powerful editorials had done much to combat the spirit of
pacificism, which at that time was weakening the preparations of
France for the inevitable conflict.
The obligation of universal service required him to exchange his
position of great power and usefulness for a lesser position, but this
spirit of common service in the ranks means much for France or for any
nation. The democracy of the French Army could not be questioned, when
the powerful Editor of the _Matin_ became merely a lieutenant in the
Territorial Infantry. As such, he served in the battle of the Marne
and later before Verdun, and thus could say of the two most heroic
chapters in French history, as Æneas said of the Siege of Troy, "Much
of which I saw, and part of which I was."
Having fulfilled the obligation of universal service in the ranks, it
is not strange that in 1916 he was recalled to serve the French
Ministry of Foreign Affairs. For a time he rendered great service in
Switzerland, where from the beginning of the war an acute but
ever-lessening controversy has raged between the pro-German and the
pro-Ally interests.
He was then chosen for a much more important mission. In October,
1916, he came to the United States as head of the "Official Bureau of
French Information," and here he has remained until the present hour.
As such, he has been an unofficial ambassador of France. His position
has been not unlike that of Franklin at Passy in the period that
preceded the formal recognition by France of the United States and the
Treaty of Alliance of 1778. As with Franklin, his weapon has been the
pen and the printing press, and the unfailing tact with which he has
carried on his mission is not unworthy of comparison with that of
Franklin. No one who has been privileged to meet and know M. Lauzanne
can fail to be impressed with his fine urbanity, his _savoir faire_
and his perfect tact. Without any attempt at propaganda, he has
greatly impressed American public opinion by his contributions to our
press and his many public addresses. In none of them has he ever made
a false step or uttered a tactless note. His words have always been
those of a sane moderation and the influence that he has wielded has
been that of truth. Apart from the vigor and calm persuasiveness of
his utterances, his winning personality has made a deep impression
upon all Americans who have been privileged to come in contact with
him. The highest praise that can be accorded to him is that he has
been a true representative of his own noble, generous and chivalrous
nation. Its sweetness and power have been exemplified by his charming
personality.
Although he has taken a forceful part in possibly the greatest
intellectual controversy that has ever raged among men, he has from
first to last been the gentleman and it has been his quiet dignity and
gentleness that has added force to all that he has written and
uttered, especially at the time when America was the greatest neutral
forum of public opinion.
If "good wine needs no bush and a good play needs no epilogue," then a
good book needs no prologue. Therefore I shall not refer to the
simplicity and charm, with which M. Lauzanne has told the story with
which this book deals. The reader will judge that for himself; and
unless the writer of this foreword is much mistaken, that judgment
will be wholly favorable. There have been many war books--a very
deluge of literature in which thinking men have been hopelessly
submerged--but most books of wartime reminiscences do not ring true.
There is too obvious an attempt to be dramatic and sensational. This
book avoids this error and its author has contented himself with
telling in a simple and convincing manner something of the part which
he was called upon to play.
I venture to predict that all good Americans who read this book will
become the friends, through the printed pages, of this gifted and
brilliant writer, and if it were possible for such Americans to
increase their love and admiration for France, then this book would
deepen the profound regard in which America holds its ancient ally.
JAMES M. BECK.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I
WHY FRANCE IS FIGHTING
The declaration of war and the French mobilization--The
invasion and the tragic days of Paris in August and
September, 1914: personal reminiscences--The premeditated
cruelties of Germany: new documents--The German organized
spying system in France 1
II
HOW FRANCE IS FIGHTING
France fighting with her men, her women and her children--The
men show that they know how to suffer: episodes of the Marne
and of Verdun--The women encourage the men to fight and to
suffer: some illustrations--Sacred Union of all Frenchmen
against the enemy--all, without any distinction of class or
religion, die smiling--Letters of soldiers--The organization
in the rear: the work in the factories 51
III
FRANCE SUFFERING BUT NOT BLED WHITE
Despite her sufferings, France is able to pay 20 billions of
dollars, for the war, in three years--French commerce and
French work during the war--France is helping her allies from
a military standpoint and financially--The saving of Serbia 94
IV
THE WAR AIMS OF FRANCE
Restitution: Alsace-Lorraine--Restoration: The devastated and
looted territories. Guarantees: The Society of Nations 138
APPENDICES
APPENDIX I.--HOW GERMANS FORCED WAR ON FRANCE 179
APPENDIX II.--HOW GERMANS TREAT AN AMBASSADOR 183
APPENDIX III.--HOW GERMANS ARE WAGING WAR 196
APPENDIX IV.--HOW GERMANS OCCUPY THE TERRITORY OF AN ENEMY 200
APPENDIX V.--HOW GERMANS TREAT ALSACE-LORRAINE 206
APPENDIX VI.--HOW GERMANS UNDERSTAND FUTURE PEACE 229
FIGHTING FRANCE
I
WHY FRANCE IS FIGHTING
Had you been in Paris late in the afternoon of Monday, August third,
nineteen fourteen, you might have seen a slight man, whose reddish
face was adorned with a thick white mustache, walk out of the German
Embassy, which was situated on the Rue de Lille near the Boulevard St.
Germain. Along the boulevard and across the Pont de la Concorde he
walked in a manner calculated to attract attention. He approached the
animated and peevish groups of citizens that had formed a little
before for the purpose of discussing the imminent war as if he wanted
them to notice him. You would have said that he was trying to be
recognized and to take part in the discussions.
But no one paid any attention to him.
Finally he came to the Quai d'Orsay, opened the Gate of the Ministry
of Foreign Affairs, and said to the attendant who hastened to open the
door for him:
"Announce the German Ambassador to the Prime Minister."
He was Baron de Schoen, Ambassador Extraordinary and Minister
Plenipotentiary of his Germanic Majesty, William the Second. For two
days he had wandered through the most crowded streets and avenues in
Paris, hoping for some injury, some insult, some overt act which would
have permitted him to say that Germany in his person had been
provoked, insulted by France. But there had been no violence, the
insult had not been offered, the overt act had not occurred. Then,
tired of this method, de Schoen took the initiative and presented a
declaration of war from his government.
The declaration, as history will record, was expressed in these terms:
The German administrative and military authorities have
established a certain number of flagrantly hostile acts
committed on German territory by French military aviators.
Several of these have openly violated the neutrality of
Belgium by flying over the territory of that country; one
has attempted to destroy buildings near Wesel; others have
been seen in the district of the Eifel, one has thrown bombs
on the railway near Carlsruhe and Nuremberg.
I am instructed and I have the honor to inform your
Excellency, that in the presence of these acts of aggression
the German Empire considers itself in a state of war with
France in consequence of the acts of the latter Power.
At the same time I have the honor to bring to the knowledge
of your Excellency that the German authorities will detain
French mercantile vessels in German ports, but they will
release them if, within forty-eight hours, they are assured
of complete reciprocity.
My diplomatic mission having thus come to an end, it only
remains for me to request your Excellency to be good enough
to furnish me with my passports, and to take the steps you
consider suitable to assure my return to Germany, with the
staff of the Embassy, as well as with the staff of the
Bavarian Legation and of the French Consulate General in
Paris.
Be good enough, M. le President, to receive the assurances
of my deepest respect.
(Signed) DE SCHOEN.
Immediately M. René Viviani, the French Premier and Minister of
Foreign Affairs, protested against the statements of this
extraordinary declaration. No French aviator had flown over Belgium;
no French aviator had come near Wesel; no French aviator had flown in
the direction of Eifel; nor had hurled bombs on the railroad near
Carlsruhe or Nuremberg. And less than two years later a German, Dr.
Schwalbe, the Burgomaster of Nuremberg, confirmed M. Viviani's
indignant denial of the German accusations:
"It is false," wrote Dr. Schwalbe in the _Deutsche Medizinische
Wochenschrift_, "that French aviators dropped bombs on the railway at
Nuremberg. The general of the third Bavarian army corps, which was
stationed in the vicinity, assured me that he knew nothing of the
attempt except from the newspapers...."
But a blow had just been struck that announced the rising of the
curtain on the most frightful tragedy the universe has ever known.
This announcement was contained in the brief, plain words of the
declaration of war.
De Schoen left the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, where he had been
courteously received for many years, and made his way out. He was
escorted by M. Philippe Berthelot, who was at the time _directeur
politique_ at the Quai d'Orsay. As he was going out of the door, de
Schoen pointed to the city, which, with its trees, its houses, and its
monuments, could be seen clearly on the other side of the Seine.
"Poor Paris," he exclaimed, "what will happen to her?"
At the same time he offered his hand to M. Berthelot, but the latter
contented himself with a silent bow, as if he had neither seen the
proffered hand nor heard the question.
It was a quarter before seven o'clock in the evening. From that time
on France has been at war with Germany.
* * * * *
Mobilization had commenced the previous evening. To be exact, it was
on Sunday, August third, at midnight.
How many times the French people had thought of that mobilization
during the last twenty years, in proportion as Germany grew more
aggressive, more brutal and more insulting! Personally I had often
looked at the little red ticket fastened to my military card, on which
were written these brief words:
In time of mobilization, Lieutenant Lauzanne (Stéphane) will
report on the second day of mobilization to the railroad
station nearest his home and there entrain immediately for
Alençon.
And each time I looked at the little red card, I felt a bit
anxious.... Mobilization! The railroad station! The first train! What
a mob of people, what an overturning of everything, what a lot of
disorder there would be! Well, there had been neither disorder nor
disturbance nor a mob, for everything had taken place in a manner that
was marvelously simple and calm.
Monday, August third, at sunrise I had gone to the Gare des Invalides.
There was no mob, there was no crowd. Some policemen were walking in
solitary state along the sidewalk, which was deserted. The station
master, to whom I presented my card, told me, in the most
extraordinarily calm voice in the world, as if he had been doing the
same thing every morning:
"Track number 5. Your train leaves at 6.27."
And the train left at 6.27, like any good little train that is on
time. It had left quietly; it was almost empty. It had followed the
Seine, and I had seen Paris lighted up by the peaceable morning glow,
Paris which was still asleep. And I had rubbed my eyes, asking myself
if I wasn't dreaming, if I wasn't asleep. Were we really at war? My
eyes were seeing nothing of it, but my memory kept recalling the fact.
It recalled the unforgettable scenes of those last days--that scene
especially, at four o'clock in the evening on the first of August,
when the crowd along the boulevard had suddenly seen the mobilization
orders posted in the window of a newspaper office. A shout burst
forth, a shout I shall hear until my last moment, which made me
tremble from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet. It was a
shout that seemed to come from the very bowels of the earth, the shout
of a people who, for years, had waited for that moment.
Then the "Marseillaise"! Then a short, imperious demand:
"The flags! We want the flags!"
And flags burst forth from all quarters of Paris, decorated in the
twinkling of an eye as if it were a fête day. Yes, all that had really
happened. All that had taken place. We were really at war.
Little by little the train filled up. It stopped at every station, and
at every station men got aboard. They came in gayly and confidently,
bidding farewell to the women who had accompanied them and who stayed
behind the gate to do their weeping. Everybody was mixed in together
in the compartments without any distinctions of rank, station, class
or anything else. At Argentan I saw some rough Norman farmers enter
the coaches, talking with the same good natured calmness as if they
were going away on a business trip. One expression was repeated again
and again:
"If we've got to go, we've got to go."
One farmer said:
"They are looking after our good. I shall fight until I fall."
The spirit of the whole French people spoke from these mouths. You
felt the firm purpose of the nation come out of the very earth.
The country side presented an unwonted appearance. I remember vividly
the view the broad plains of Beauce offered. They looked as if they
were dead or fallen into a lethargy. Their life had come to an abrupt
end on Saturday, the first of August, at four o'clock in the
afternoon. We saw mounds of grain that had been cut and was still
scattered on the ground, with the scythe glistening nearby. We saw
pitchforks resting alongside the hay they had just finished tossing.
We saw sheaves lying on the ground with no one to take them away. The
very villages were deserted; not a human being appeared in them. You
would have said that this train that was passing through in the wake
of hundreds of other trains had blotted out all the inhabitants of the
region.
We detrained at Alençon, arriving there about mid-day. Alençon is a
tiny Norman village that is habitually calm and peaceful, but on that
day it was crowded with people. An enormous wave, the wave of the men
who were mobilizing, rushed through the main street of the little town
in the direction of the two barracks. I went with the current. My
captain, whom I found in the middle of a part of the barracks, had not
even had time to put on his uniform. He explained the situation to me
with military brevity:
"It's very simple.... It's now three o'clock in the afternoon. The day
after tomorrow, at six o'clock in the morning, we entrain for Paris.
We have one day to clothe, equip and arm our company."
It is no small matter to clothe, equip and arm two hundred and fifty
men in twenty-four hours. You have to find in the enormous pile, which
is in a corner of a shed, two hundred and fifty coats, pairs of
trousers and hats which will fit two hundred and fifty entirely
separate and distinct chests, legs and heads. You have to find five
hundred pairs of shoes for two hundred and fifty pairs of feet. You
have to arrange the men in rank according to their heights, form the
sections and the squads. You have to have soup prepared and transport
provisions. You have to go and get rifles and cartridges. You have to
get funds advanced for the company accounts from the very beginning of
the campaign. You have to get your duties organized, make up accounts
and prepare statements. You have to breathe the breath of life into
the little machine which is going to take its place in the big
machine.
And there was not a person there to help us to do this--not a line
officer, not a second lieutenant. The captain had to act on his own,
to think on his own, to decide everything on his own. He had to do
all by himself the work that yesterday twenty-five department store
heads, twenty-five shoe makers and twenty-five certified public
accountants would have had a hard time doing.
He did it! Every captain in the French Army did it. And the next
morning at six o'clock our little machine was ready to go and take its
place in the operations of the big machine. The following day, at six
o'clock, we entrained again; but no longer was it the confused and
disorganized crowd that it had been the evening before. It was a
company with arms and leaders; a company which had already made the
acquaintance of discipline. That was proved by the silence reigning
everywhere. At the moment of departure the Colonel had commanded:
"Silence!"
There was not a sound. The long train, crowded with soldiers, was a
silent train which passed through the open country, the towns and the
villages all the way to Paris without a sound except the puffing of
the engine. In the evening, silent always, we detrained at Paris and
marched to a barracks situated to the north of the capital. We were
to stay there a month.
* * * * *
The story of Paris during the month of August, 1914, is an
extraordinary one that would deserve an entire volume to itself. That
feverish city has never lived through hours that were more calm and
peaceful. During the first two weeks Paris seemed to be in a sweet,
peaceful dream, in which the citizens listened eagerly for sounds of
victory coming from the far distant horizon. On the twenty-fifth of
August Paris, which had heard only vague echoes of the Battle of
Charleroi, awakened with a jolt when it read the famous communiqué
beginning with the words: "_De la Somme aux Vosges_...."
So the enemy was already at the Somme, a few days' march from the
capital! But the awakening was as free from disturbance as the dream
had been. Paris felt absolute confidence in the army, in Joffre; and
the Parisian reasoning was expressed in one phrase, "The army has
retreated, but it is neither destroyed nor beaten; as long as the
army is there, Paris has nothing to fear...." And when Sunday the
thirtieth of August came, Paris was as calm and confident as it was
on the first day of the war.
I shall remember the thirtieth of August for a long time.
They had posted on all the walls two notices. One of them was large,
the other small. The large one was a proclamation of the Government
announcing the departure of its officials for Bordeaux:
FRENCHMEN!
For several weeks our troops and the enemy's army have been
engaged in a series of bloody battles. The bravery of our
soldiers has gained them marked advantages at several
points. But in the north the pressure of the German forces
has compelled us to withdraw.
This retirement imposes a regrettably necessary decision on
the President of the Republic and the Government. To protect
national safety the government officials have to leave Paris
at once.
Under the command of an eminent leader, a French army, full
of bravery and resource, will defend the capital and its
people against the invader. But at the same time war will
be carried on over the rest of the territory.
The small notice was from General Gallieni, the new Governor of Paris.
It had, in its brevity, the beauty of an ancient inscription:
"I have been ordered to defend Paris. I shall obey this
command until the end."
That same Sunday, the thirtieth of August, was the first day the
Taubes came over Paris. By chance I was guarding one of the city's
gates. I saw the airplane coming from a distance. I had not the least
doubt about it for it had the silhouette of a bird of prey that
rendered the German planes so easily recognizable at that time. For
that matter, no one was deceived by it, and from all the batteries,
forts and other positions a violent fusillade greeted it. There was
firing from the streets, windows, courts and roofs. I followed it
through my field glass, and for a moment I thought it had been hit,
for it paused in its flight. But this was an optical illusion.... The
plane simply flew higher, having without doubt heard the sound of the
fusillade and the bullets having perhaps whistled too close to the
pilot's ears. When he was almost over my post, a light white cloud
appeared under its wings and, in the ten ensuing seconds, there
followed a terrible series of sounds, for a bomb had just fallen and
exploded very near at hand. But so entrancing was it to observe the
flight of this pirate who, in spite of everything, continued in his
audacious course, that I gazed at the heavens, trying to determine
whether or not I saw once more the little white cloud, the precursor
of the machine of death.
And everyone who was near me--workmen, passers-by, women,
children--stayed there too, their feet firmly on the ground, their
glances lost in the limitless sky. No one ran away; no one hid; no one
sought refuge behind a door or in a cellar. It's a characteristic of
airplane bombs that they frighten no one, even when they kill. The
machine you see does not frighten you; only the machine you can't see
upsets your nerves.
However that may be, the curiosity of Paris was insatiable. Even in
the tragic hours we were living through at that time, this curiosity
remained as eager, ardent and amused as ever. Every afternoon, at the
stroke of four, crowds collected in the squares and avenues. The
motive was to see the Taubes! Since one Taube had flown over the city,
no one doubted that a second one would come the next day. A girl's
boarding school obtained a free afternoon to enjoy the spectacle. The
midinettes were allowed to leave their work. At Montmartre, where the
steps of the Butte gave a better chance of scanning the horizon,
places were in great demand.
There was a crowd along the fortifications to see the works for the
defense on which, by General Gallieni's order, men were working.
Thousands of spectators of both sexes, but especially of women, were
examining the bases that were being put in for the guns, the openings
they were making to serve as loopholes, the joists they were putting
across the gates, and the paving stones with which the entrances were
being barricaded. This crowd did not want to believe in the proximity
of the enemy. Or, if it believed it, it didn't want to admit that
there was danger. Or, if it admitted that there was danger, it wanted
to share in it. Above everything it wanted to see; it wanted to see!
The last night in August I had a hard time freeing the approaches of
the gate I was guarding. There were only women, but there were
thousands of them and neither prayer nor argument could persuade them
to make up their minds to go home.
"Nothing will happen," I told them. "Look here now, be reasonable and
go home to bed."
"But we want to see...."
"What do you want to see?"
"Want to see what kind of a reception the Prussians will get if they
come."
Aside from this the mob was remarkably easy to get on with. A strict
order had forbidden that anyone be permitted to enter or leave Paris
until sunrise. As a result the capital found itself cut off from the
suburbs, and lots of little working girls, who came in for the day
from Clichy or Levallois-Perret, couldn't get back to their homes in
the evening. They had to camp out under the stars.
"It's very amusing," they said, "here we are just like soldiers."
I even heard one of them say:
"What a pity there isn't always war."
That same night, about eleven o'clock, a heavy sound was heard coming
from the direction of the city. Some urchins shouted:
"It's the soldiers. It's the soldiers."
An entire Algerian division was, as a matter of fact, detraining and
hurrying to fight before Paris. Behind it followed a long line of
taxi-cabs, the famous line of taxi-cabs requisitioned by General
Gallieni to carry munitions to the battle field of the Ourcq. They
made an incomparable spectacle, that magnificent summer night, in the
bright moonlight, the long column of Algerian cavalry, with their
shining burnouses, on fiery little horses. Applause burst forth from
the mob and reached the soldiers. The women threw kisses at them, but
they overwhelmed my men and me with reproaches:
"See," they shrieked at us, "if we had minded you and gone home, we
wouldn't have seen them."
* * * * *
Paris, which didn't know about the Battle of Charleroi, knew about the
Battle of the Marne. Paris knew about the Battle of the Marne not only
on account of the troops who marched through its streets, but because
it heard the big guns roar for three days, without stopping, towards
the north.
What has not already been written and said about the Battle of the
Marne, a conflict which will remain legendary in history? What will
not be said and written on that subject in the future?... Some writers
will see in it a miracle, others a strategic action engineered by a
genius, others a chance stroke of destiny. The truth of the matter is
more simple and appealing than any of these explanations and, although
the whole truth is not yet known about the fight at the Marne, enough
is known to make clear the two or three chief reasons why victory came
to France and defeat to Germany, safety to civilization and a repulse
to barbarism.
To be sure there was a great deal of strategy in it; and the stroke
that was conceived in the master brain of Joffre and carried out by
Generals Gallieni and Maunoury--a stroke which consisted in forming a
new army on the extreme right of the German hordes to come and hurl
itself sharply against these hordes--was a brave and bold maneuver
which prepared the way for victory.
But this maneuver would not in itself have sufficed to win the victory
if Maunoury had not attacked with an irresistible élan on the extreme
left, upsetting the German plan of battle; if Franchet d'Esperey had
not supported Maunoury's attack vigorously and succeeded in breaking
the German left; if, especially, Foch, at the center, had not
performed unheard of miracles in breaking down the enemy's resistance
and not allowing his own lines to be broken; if, farther on, de Langle
de Cary and Sarrail had not held off the Princes of Bavaria and
Prussia before Vitry; if, on the right, de Castelnau had not held
until the end the Grand Couronné at Nancy. The first truth is that
they were all--Joffre, Gallieni, Maunoury, Franchet d'Esperey, Foch,
de Langle de Cary, Sarrail, Castelnau, Dubail, to mention them in the
order of the battle line from left to right--absolutely incomparable.
As an eye-witness said, "each man was on his own," each man gave the
very best there was in his brain, his skill, his mind, his soul, his
heart. The battle would have been lost if a single one of them had
failed once during the entire seven days it raged. Opposed to the Huns
was a chain forged of the finest steel, every link in which met the
test for equal and unparalleled resistance. Therein lay the miracle of
the Marne!
And the second great truth is that behind these generals, who all
showed themselves without equal, were armies which, without exception,
had kept intact their fighting spirit, that is, their faith in
themselves, in their leaders, in the destiny of their country, in the
beauty of the cause for which they fought.... Enough can never be said
of the elemental importance that lies in the morale of the fighting
men on the battle field. It is lamentable to hear far distant
strategists reduce the conflict of two peoples to a problem in tactics
or a list of ordnance statistics. It is enough to make angels weep
when spectators, at a safe distance, speak of succoring a beaten
people by sending them food stuffs, shells and men. Above all, beyond
all, is that immaterial, incalculable, invaluable force which is the
sole true mistress of warfare--moral force--fighting spirit!
The Frenchmen in the Battle of the Marne kept their fighting spirit
intact. I remember asking many of the officers attached to the forces
which, after the Battle of Charleroi, retreated under a broiling sun,
along roads burning with heat, through a suffocating dust, how they
felt at this disheartening time. All of them answered, "We did not
know where we were going or what we were doing, but we did know one
thing--that we would beat them!" One writer, Pierre Laserre, described
this retreat in the words, "Their bodies were retreating, but not
their souls!" This is proven by the arrival on the fifth of September
of Joffre's immortal order, "The hour has come to hold our positions
at any cost, and to fight rather than retreat.... No longer must we
look at the enemy over our shoulders; the time has come to employ all
our efforts in attacking and defeating him."... That evening, when
they heard their leader's appeal, the hearts of the men bounded in
response. The next morning, at dawn, their bodies leaped up and hurled
themselves on the enemy. Therein lay the miracle of the Marne!
Finally, at the very hour when the fighting spirit of the French Army
had never been higher, the fighting spirit of the German Army had
never been lower. It was low because the physical strength of the
Germans was low, worn out, and broken by the shameful orgies, the
disgraceful drinking which had reduced these men to the level of
swine. It was low because the German fighting men had been led to
believe that they would have to fight no longer, that the great effort
was ended, that there was no French Army to put a stop to their
pillaging and burning. "Tomorrow we enter Paris, we are going to the
Moulin Rouge," von Kluck's soldiers said in their jargon to the
inhabitants of Compiègne. "Tomorrow we will burn Bar-le-Duc,
Poincaré's home town," the Crown Prince's soldiers said. What sort of
resistance could such men oppose to Joffre's soldiers? Their spirit,
granting that they had ever had any, was broken beforehand. And that
is another thing that will explain the outcome of the Battle of the
Marne.
* * * * *
What Paris knew very quickly, very completely and very surely were the
details of frightful looting and of the first atrocities perpetrated
by the Germans, who demonstrated a premeditated intention to destroy,
defile and wipe out everything in their path. And Paris was doubtless
the first city in France to comprehend the significance of this war,
which is a war of civilization against barbarism, a sacred war in
which the forces of humanity raise a rampart of human breasts against
the violent reappearance of primitive savagery.
Those of us who had a hand in some part of the Battle of the Marne
were not slow to comprehend who the enemy was we were fighting and why
we had to fight him to the death.
Among the many things that will be always engraved on the tablets of
my memory, the deepest is of the time when I was on guard at the field
of battle on the Ourcq, north of Meaux, on the extremity of the battle
line of the Marne. Field of battle I have just written. No, it was not
a field of battle but a field of carnage. I have forgotten the corpses
I met in the roads or in the fields with their grinning faces and
their distorted attitudes. But I shall never forget the ruin that was
everywhere, the abominable manner in which the fields had been laid
waste, the sacrilegious pillage of homes. That bore the trade mark of
German "Kultur." That trade mark will be enough to dishonor a nation
for centuries.
I see again those humble villages situated along the road to Meaux,
Penchard, Marcilly, Chambry, Etrepilly, where a barbarian horde had
passed. Since there were no inhabitants remaining--men whose throats
could be cut, women who could be violated, or babies to shoot
down--the horde had vented its rage on the furniture and the poor
little familiar objects in which each one of us puts a bit of his
soul.
I arrived in Etrepilly at the same time as a detachment of Zouaves.
While they piously buried their companions who had fallen in forcing
their way into the village, I wandered alone among the ruins. There
had been a hundred houses there, and not a single one was untouched.
Some had been hit by shells, and the shell which burst in the interior
of the house had destroyed everything. That, of course, was war, and
there was nothing to say about it.
But other houses, which had been spared by shell fire, had not been
spared by the Kaiser's soldiery. The Barbarians had placed their claws
on them. Everything had been taken out of the houses and scattered to
the four winds of heaven. Here is a portrait that has been wrenched
from its frame and trampled on. A baby's bathtub has been carried into
the garden, and the soldiers have deposited their excrement in it.
There are chairs that have been smashed by the kicks of heavy boots
and wardrobes that have been disemboweled. Here is a fine old mahogany
table that has been carried into the fields for five hundred meters
and then broken in two. An old red damask armchair, with wings at the
sides, one of those old armchairs in which the grandmothers of France
sit by the fire in the evening has been torn in shreds by knife
thrusts. Linen is mixed with mud; the white veil some girl wore at her
first communion is defiled with excrement.... An old man is wandering
among the ruins. He has just come back to the devastated village. He
says to me simply:
"I saw them in 1870. They came here, but they didn't do this. They are
savages."
A woman was there, too. She had come an hour or so ago with the old
man, and she stood on the step of her defiled, despoiled home where
the curtains hung in tatters at the windows. She saw me pass by. She
wanted to speak to me, but her voice stuck in her throat. There she
stood, her arms extended like a great cross. She could only sob:
"Look! Look!"
And she was like a symbol of the whole wretched business.
The men who do such deeds are the men France is fighting.
* * * * *
Vincy-Manoeuvre was another one of the villages. It is situated near
the border of the Department of the Oise. It was still in flames when
I entered it. On the outskirts of the hamlet there used to be a large
factory. Only the iron framework of this factory remained; the ashes
had commenced to smoke, giving forth flames from time to time. Here
also every house had been destroyed and pillaged. Only the church
remained standing, and on the belfry which was silhouetted against the
sky, the weather cock seemed to shudder with horror.
Bottles covered the ground everywhere at Vincy-Manoeuvre. There were
bottles in the streets, along the highways, in the fields. They
marked the road by which the vanquished hordes had retreated. I
counted almost two hundred in one trench, where a German battery had
been placed. They lay pell-mell, mixed in with unexploded shells.
Panic had apparently swept the gunners away. They had not had time to
carry off their shells, so they had left them behind. But they had had
time to empty the bottles. Absinthe, brandy, rum, champagne, beer, and
wine had all been consumed, and the labels lay alongside of each
other. Drunken, bloodthirsty brutes, thieving, sickening, nauseous
beasts were what had descended upon France and passed through her
country. Ruins, ashes and filth were the traces left behind by the
German mob.
Some hundreds of yards from the village I noticed a woman lost in the
immense beet fields. Apparently she was unharmed. I walked in her
direction, thrusting aside with my legs corpses of men and horses,
scaling the trenches, making a circuit around the craters made by
shells. Suddenly what was my surprise at seeing two German soldiers,
accompanied by a farmer, coming along a footpath! They stopped at six
paces, gave me a military salute, and pointed to the white brassard of
the Red Cross they wore on their arms.
"Where do you come from?" I asked. "What are you doing here?"
"We come from that farm, where we have been for two days caring for
two of our wounded. We didn't see any French soldier or officer. We
don't know what to do. We want to go to the village down there," they
pointed out a hamlet two or three kilometers off, "where we left a
doctor and one hundred and fifty-three wounded."
"Very good," I said, "follow me."
Obediently the two orderlies marched behind me to the village they had
pointed out. It was situated on the national highway to Soissons. In
this place were a hundred and fifty or two hundred Germans, quartered
in four or five houses under the guard of a company of Zouaves who had
just arrived a half hour previously. The German major, informed of my
arrival, stood in front of the main building. He wore gold-rimmed
spectacles, his face was the type the Alsatian Hansi loves to show in
his books. He spoke very good French and even pretended that he did
not want to answer the questions I asked him in his own language.
"Show me your wounded," I ordered.
He immediately conducted me everywhere, explaining the nature of each
wound. Some were suffering and groaning; others, seeing the uniform of
a French officer, tried to raise themselves up and salute.
The German major asked:
"When they come to evacuate the wounded to Meaux or some other place,
do you suppose I shall be allowed to accompany them and continue my
treatment?"
"I don't know," I replied, "but there is one thing you can be sure of.
My superiors will act in accordance with the demands of humanity. Now
you follow me."
I led him outside to the doorstep. I pointed out the poor homes of the
village, ruined, reduced to dust. Everywhere were the dwellings of the
entire region, with their furniture lying in the mud and ashes.
"Look at that," I said to him. "That is what your men have done."
The German officer turned very pale, then very red. He answered:
"It's sad, but it is war."
"No," I replied, "it isn't war. It's pure barbarism and it's
abominable."
Some few paces away from us French Zouaves were sitting beside some
wounded Germans. In their own glasses they poured out a little cordial
for their prisoners; they gave them their last cigarettes. One of them
had even taken, as if he were his brother, the head of a wounded
German in his left hand to support it. With his right hand, very
carefully, he was giving him a drink. I pointed that out to the German
major, saying:
"There! That is war--at least it's war as we understand it."
This time he made no answer.
But all the German prisoners repeated what he had said to me as a set
phrase. On the whole, when you have seen ten German prisoners you
have seen a thousand; when you have questioned one German officer you
have questioned fifty. The characteristic of the race is that they
have abolished all individuality. You find yourself in an amorphous
mass, cast in a uniform mold, not in the presence of human beings who
think their own thoughts.
I often saw trains stop in what is called a _gare regulatrice_, where
the prisoners are questioned and distributed. These trains bring in
prisoners and their officers. The commandant of the station, in
accordance with his duty, has the officers appear before him so that
he can question them:
"Your name? Your rank?"
The German states his name and rank, offering of necessity his
identification card.
"Your regiment?"
"Such and such a regiment."
"Your army corps?"
"Such and such an army corps."
"Who is the general in command?"
Like an automaton the officer replies:
"_Das sage ich nicht._" ("I can not answer that.")
And you know that it would be an easier matter to make the stone
beneath your feet talk than one of these prisoners.
However, the commandant frowns slightly, glances over his notes, and
says coldly:
"I know who your general is. If you belong to such and such an army
corps, the general in command must be General von Bissing."...
"I have nothing to say."
As a general thing one of the staff had something to say. The
interpreter, the convoy officer or the station master would get a lot
of fun out of reciting to the German passages from von Bissing's
famous and ferocious proclamation ordering that no quarter be given
and that the troops should not encumber themselves with prisoners.
Then he would ask:
"What would you say if we were to put such a principle into practice?"
The German often became very pale. He would content himself with a
shrug of the shoulders--the shrug of the brute who knows that he is
safe among civilized men.
The men I questioned were often doctors who ranked as majors or held
some commission in the German medical corps. They were less stiff and
automaton-like than the officers and sergeants of the line service.
Their attitude varied in accordance with the number of stars they had
on their epaulette. If their rank were inferior to mine, they were
exaggeratedly obsequious, holding their hands along the crease in the
seam of their trousers with their fingers close together--at strict
attention. If their rank were superior to mine, they were defiant and
insolent. Nevertheless, they showed themselves more communicative than
their comrades of the line service. Most of them spoke French--well
enough, though not perfectly. All of them had been in Paris, and one
and all repeated this phrase:
"We know your beautiful country well. We have been in your beautiful
capital often...."
For my part, I invariably spoke to them of the atrocities their men
had perpetrated in that beautiful country, or of those they had
perpetrated in the country of our beautiful neighbor.... Rheims,
Ypres, Louvain, Andenne, were the names that always returned to my
lips. I hoped each time that I would get from those men who, in spite
of everything, were men of science, members of humanity's most
generous profession, if not a word of contrition at least a banal word
of regret. Since they had not ordered the sacrileges or the massacres,
they need not keep silent. But it was all in vain. They also excused,
justified and explained....
The explanation was simple and stereotyped. For the battered Cathedral
of Rheims, for the total destruction of Clermont, for the systematic
laying-waste of Louvain, for the frightful company of old men, women
and children who were dragged off into captivity, three words were the
justification--the three words of the German major at Vincy:
"_Das ist Krieg._" ("It is war.")
For the blackened ruins of Senlis, for that charming city of Louvain,
razed to the ground in one night as completely as if the scourge of
God had passed through it; for Andenne, assassinated in cold blood
with not one of its houses being granted mercy by the assassins; for
Termonde, where General Sommerfeld, seated in a chair in the midst of
the Grande Place, gave the order that it be burned and replied to the
entreaties of the mayor:
"No. Burn it to the ground!"
Five other words sufficed to explain everything:
"Civilians fired on our troops."
Not one village in flames, not one desecrated monument, not one
organized killing, not one tortured city that does not fall under the
scope of one or the other of those justifications, "War is war," or
"Civilians fired on our troops."
Doctors, savants, officers, Bavarians, Saxons, and Prussians have
adopted the double excuse with a marvelous unity: they advance it in a
certain tone of voice. It is firmly embedded in what is left of their
consciences as firmly as the iron cross is riveted on their necks.
Besides, it was all planned, wished for, arranged in advance. German
frightfulness formed a part of the plan of campaign. It is enough to
read the manual called "Kriegesgebrauch in Landkriege" (Military
Usage in Landwarfare) to be very much edified. Every German officer
has had this manual in his hands since the days of peace. It comprised
his rules of warfare. It was a part of his war equipment, the same as
his field glasses and his staff-officer's card. And here is what he
reads on the very first page: